


Saw the future unfold (in silver and gold)

by rillaelilz



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Merlin AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9660695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: “Fili,” he shows him, guiding Fili’s hand through a shower of stardust in his chambers. It dances around them like a thousand little fireflies in a meadow, dappling their linked fingers with gold dust, and Fili feels like a child again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Winterfre2017 prompt #129. _Merlin AU_.  
>  The basics are pretty simple:  
> 1\. magic is outlawed in Erebor, and its use is a major crime;  
> 2\. Fili is Erebor's Crown Prince;  
> 3\. Kili is his manservant and, secretly (well, more or less), a powerful warlock.  
> The story develops over the span of a few years; also, expect inaccuracies and mixed mythology.  
> Finally... I kind of suck at this, but I meant to, you know, introduce a scene from different "episodes", or what would have been episodes if this show ever existed. XD Okay, enough with my explanations. Have a nice day, everyone!

 

 

It begins with Kili and his big brown eyes blown wide with fear, a heart-shaped mouth hanging open and various items including buckets, brushes and an appalling amount of metal parts dropping on the floor in the loudest racket the Seven Kingdoms have ever heard since the gods sang them into existence.

Fili can hardly say he was expecting it, but something always did seem off about the _extraordinary_ , as well as unprecedented, gleam of his polished armour on training days.

“F-Fili- Your highness- I wasn’t—”

The prince doesn’t falter one second more than is necessary. Twenty-three years of grooming with King Thorin himself as his mentor should have prepared him for worse surprises than a dash of... Kili. And his damned recklessness. And his practicing something as dangerously illegal as _magic_ within Erebor’s walls. Which is _reckless_ , gods’ sake.

“Not a single word on this, Kili,” he decrees hastily, shushing his manservant and shutting the armoury’s heavy door behind him. Kili’s gaze lingers on him, uncertain, quite possibly wondering if the day will end with his head on a spike after all.

Fili can see the clenched fists pressed to his flanks, the struggle to keep himself from saying anything more, the slight slump of his shoulders now that he’s been caught. Leaving him hanging like that is unfair at the very least, especially when Fili has already made up his mind; and deep down, he has to wonder if he had already made the decision before he ever caught a glimpse of gold in Kili’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” he reassures the young man, the faintest hint of a smile breaking out on his lips, “I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe with me.”

Perhaps he should (oh, Thorin would say so), but he doesn’t regret it for _one_ second.

 

 

It’s when night comes that Fili allows himself to bring it up again.

It takes some guts to even say the words; years at uncle Thorin’s side have made it hard for him to trust himself with such things as _magic_ , and yet all of him seems as sure of Kili as ever, as ready as always to trust _him_ if he can’t trust his powers for what they are, for what they have the potential to be.

He takes a deep breath, as if he might just drown in the vicious ocean of his thoughts if he doesn’t. He leaves his bread half-bitten on the plate, trailing crumbs on his way to the fireplace; Kili almost flinches away when he hears the rattle of the prince’s chair dragging on the stone floor.

He doesn’t really move - he stays put on his stool, boot and brush in his lap, hair falling like a frame around his face as his eyes settle carefully on Fili, waiting. Fili can almost hear his heartbeat echo in the silent chamber.

“Your highness...” the younger man begins, hesitant; his voice sounds so rough, Fili thinks his throat must feel as dry as the sand in the arena.

“My uncle would have your head if he found out.”

It’s not a threat, barely a statement; Kili seems to understand that, as he sits crestfallen on his wobbly stool, and Fili sighs deeply, thoughts spinning restlessly in his mind.

“I know,” is the murmured reply he gets from the boy. There’s something like sorrow in his gaze, something lost way too far in the depth of Kili’s heart for Fili to fully grasp just now.

“But it’s part of me, it has always been since I can remember,” Kili tells him, a hand spread on his chest as if to make a point.

“I can’t give up on it. I... I can’t. I can’t,” he repeats with glistening eyes, shaking his head for good measure – and even though he doesn’t say it out loud, Fili can hear it with absolute clarity,  _Please don’t make me, please don’t make me give up on it_. And he realizes, he never meant to take this away from Kili at all. He could; he probably should, according to Erebor’s laws anyways. But the things is, most unsurprisingly, he  _doesn’t_   _want_ to.

“Alright,” he breathes out at last, raking a hand through his golden hair. “I said I would keep your secret, and I will. But Kili,” he adds, his voice firmer now, eyes bearing straight into his servant’s, “you  _must_  be careful. Anyone else could have seen you earlier, and you could have been much less lucky than you were today.”

He can see the words burn underneath Kili’s skin, the way they make him lower his gaze and hang his head in shame, and Fili would feel bad about it if this wasn’t a matter of life or death - a life he’s learned to hold dear, oh quite dear, against everyone’s better judgement.

“I’m sorry,” Kili mumbles then, his a grip a little too tight around the polish-smeared brush in his hand. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

It’s not much, all things considered, but it still makes Fili breathe more easily.

“Good,” the prince approves with a tiny smile, then leaves the fireside to prepare for the night, fingers already reaching for the hem of his tunic. “You may go now, Kili. It’s been a long day and... and you’ll want your rest, too.”

“Yes, sire.”

They bid each other an awkward _goodnight_ , and everything goes smoothly enough until Kili is halting in the doorway, hand frozen on the handle.

“Sire?” the boy calls, and somehow Fili’s heart is racing as their eyes meet across the room. It’s hard not to notice the way Kili’s lips part in a moment of hesitation and his chest rises and falls, as if the breath was just stolen from his lungs. It makes it that much harder for Fili to let him go just yet.

“Yes?”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Kili says, no louder than a broken whisper, but Fili hears it.

 

 

It feels unnatural for some reason – the sudden wall of formality between them, when nothing like that ever existed since the day Kili became his manservant. Two years of delightful irreverence since then, of bad jokes on Kili’s part and hair-ruffles on Fili’s, of friendship freely given and gladly returned, and a dash of _something else_ playing in the background of it all, and this is what it led them to.

Kili shies away from him now; be it embarrassment or shame or wariness, he tends to keep himself at a distance, not so much physically as with words. A _your highness_ here, a _sire_ there, a _my lord_ where _my lord_ ’s were ruled out of his dictionary right away in the first place; _too weird_ , he used to say, _sounds like you’re making fun of them_.

There’s something between them, a reticence in Kili that keeps them from falling back into their old ways, and Fili doesn’t like it much. He doesn’t resent Kili for behaving like that, but he doesn’t want to lose a friend either, not for becoming the accidental keeper of his biggest secret.

So he does things Dwalin’s way – bluntly and somewhat scruffily, if one wants to be picky.

 

 

“ _You used to call me by my name_.”

He throws it out there with fake nonchalance, but there’s a glint in his blue eyes when Kili meets them, a lopsided smile on his lips that dips the bow of his mouth and pushes the corners under his carefully braided moustache.

“I kind of miss that,” the prince confesses playfully, and Kili snorts and lets a small grin escape him for the first time in a week.

“I’m sorry,” he concedes with a little bow of his head, rubbing polish into the breastplate sitting in his lap, “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

His hair comes flooding off his shoulders like a waterfall when he leans in, cascading in messy waves upon his cotton-clad chest. Fili could swear he can smell the soft fragrance of the lavender oil Oin gave him weeks ago, when Kili hurt his arm, diffusing in the room with Kili’s every move, the scent of it rising from his very skin.

It makes him wonder if it would cling to his own clothes the way it seems to linger on Kili’s; if the touch of Kili’s body would imprint it on the sheets in his royal bed. He feels his fingers itch at the very thought, as if ready to collect their prize from the mark Kili’s limbs left behind. It takes the sheer force of his servant’s gaze to awaken him from his reverie.

“What’s wrong?”

There’s worry in Kili’s brown eyes, under the familiar crease of his brow. Fili remembers the flicker of gold in his irises, like something precious and untouchable; something new and compelling where the welcoming warmth of his friend used to be. Suddenly, he wants to see it again – wants the glimmer of sunlight in Kili’s eyes when magic rushes through him like hot blood in his veins.

“Can you... can you show me…? That is…”

Fili clears his throat a little awkwardly, and Kili’s eyes widen, caught by surprise.

“You- you mean…?”

The prince licks his lips, a feeling of guilt thickening in his guts. This could be dangerous – scratch that, this _is_ dangerous, _dangerous_ is an understatement when one tiny mistake could cost Kili his life; but the door is shut and the hallways are empty and nobody ever disturbs the Crown Prince’s privacy. And he wants, _wants_ , wants to see it, wants to feel it, desperately and selfishly so.

“Yes,” he exhales, and it’s like a shiver rolling down Kili’s spine – the way his back straightens ad he holds his breath for a moment, then two, then three, his lips parted in a silent gasp. Fili watches him swallow and follows his eyes when they flicker towards the logs piled in the hearth for the night, the wood still whole and untouched.

“Are you sure?” Kili asks. His voice is hesitant, but his gaze is sure on Fili’s; it seems to carry a weight of its own, something deep and ancestral only the wise can hope to understand. Under that power, Fili can only nod.

“Please,” he begs, and in a heartbeat, Kili’s irises are glowing like molten gold, uncanny and yet utterly hypnotising. Next thing Fili knows, gentle flames are blossoming in the fireplace like flowers, dancing and rising before him in a flutter of honey and scarlet, mesmerizing.

Kili’s lips utter foreign words, so quietly they’re lost in the crackling from the hearth. The fire keens for an instant, a sound like the echo of a roar, fierce flames like claws, and then it dies with a flourish.

“Kili…”

When Fili looks, there’s the silhouette of a rampant lion burned into the nearest log, twin to the one on Fili’s ring – his late father’s crest. The look in Kili’s eyes in the afterglow is wild, raw, like a soul stripped bare. The shock of it all dusts goosebumps on Fili’s skin.

“Kili,” he calls breathlessly, dizzy before such a sight. “That was…” He falters, the memory of molten embers and fluttering eyelashes still fresh in his mind. “It was beautiful.”

Kili lowers his gaze, a bashful pink colouring his cheeks. Fili thinks he sees the ghost of a smile on his face, but it’s well hidden behind the curtain of his chestnut hair.

“It was nothing,” the youth mutters. The scorched outline of the lion is still smoking in the hearth, burned black around the edges and still tender on the inside.

Somewhere in his heart, Fili knows that Kili is wrong.

This, _this_ is everything.

 

 

 

It happens slowly, bit by little bit. Kili isn’t one to be swayed easily, but this time he seems to be slipping back into his old habits naturally, on his own terms.

“Fili,” he says once, like a happy accident stumbled out of his lips.

“Fili!” he calls the next day, instinctive, perhaps forgetful. Fili’s smile is a secret one these days, hidden behind the rim of his cup.

“Fili,” Kili staggers again, and twice that day, for _good mornings_ and _goodnights_. Fili’s heart feels full like a goblet of Dale’s finest wine.

“Fili,” he shows him, guiding Fili’s hand through a shower of stardust in his chambers. It dances around them like a thousand little fireflies in a meadow, dappling their linked fingers with gold dust, and Fili feels like a child again.

“ _Fili_ ,” he whispers, a word as soft and pliant as spells sound on his lips, and Fili watches as tiny, crystal clear flowers bloom from the handful of snow cupped in his palms, ice born of ice - and a sprinkle of Kili’s pure heart.

“ _Fili_ ,” he warns, out of breath, Fili’s fingers draped around his wrist, only the space of a kiss between their lips. They don’t touch, but Kili’s skin burns for days where his and Fili’s hands met.

“ _Fili_ ,” he sighs, simple and loving. His eyes twinkle with the light of dawn that bathes the royal chambers; his smile is like a gem set on the perfect jewel of his face. He stretches lazily against Fili, limbs heavy and sated, heart a-singing. “Fili,” he hums once more, and Fili leans in to collect the sound of it from his lips, like fresh water from a spring. They say that when somebody knows your true name, they own your soul as well. One cool April morning, Prince Fili knows it to be true.

 

 

 

Erebor’s blue seems to suit Kili much better than it suits _him_. The deep cobalt is like a kiss on his tanned skin, a complement to the dark richness of his eyes; Fili wonders if he could pepper his hair with little periwinkles and forget-me-nots and get away with it, as a sacred right of the Crown Prince to place flowers in his manservant’s plaits with his own, holy hands.

Kili would probably kill him and then demand to put wreaths of daisies on his head in return, for all of the Seven Kingdoms to see.

“What is it?” Kili’s voice shakes him out of his fantasies. “Do I look ridiculous? Is that why you’re laughing?”

Fili has to rub a hand across his moustache just to check on his own expression, and he finds the grin exactly where Kili saw it, dimpled and delighted as it were. Dwalin is right when he says that the boy is as oblivious as he is dangerous; he accidentally brings out in Fili everything Thorin taught him to conceal, and Fili would worry about it if he weren’t too busy relishing the freedom Kili hands him on a silver platter at every turn.

“I’m not laughing, Kili. This is called a _smile_ , see? People smile when they’re happy.”

“And you’re happy because everyone is going to see how ridiculous these clothes look on me.”

The pout on Kili’s face is almost too adorable to be true.

“Quite the contrary,” the prince assures, smoothing down the crinkles on the cloak as it drapes around Kili’s broad shoulders. The man feels warm even through three layers of fabric, which is impudent at best and – honestly – _this_ short of unlawful, and Fili’s palm lingers on the spot in complete outrage.

“I am pleased because I can see that our plan will work _perfectly_.”

Kili scoffs at that, and Fili’s heart soars just by thinking of Thorin’s face if he had witnessed that. He can see it clearly in his mind, an angry red on the verge of purple, and lightning bolts sizzling in his eyes. _Pure delight_.

“With all due respect, sire, this is the worst plan anyone’s ever planned,” Kili informs him, gesturing to his own figure, boots and jerkin and leather belts, causing the cape to wiggle around him and get caught in the sword hanging from his side. “Who would ever believe that I could be a knight?”

The lingering touch turns into a light squeeze on his left shoulder, and Fili’s eyes lock with his with confidence and boundless warmth. Kili can’t quite explain it, and Fili can’t quite help himself.

“Anyone with a drop of sense in them,” the prince says, like he’s stating the obvious.

 

 

 

When news come of the threat at the northern borders, Kili is restless for days. He sleeps too little and eats even less, until one night he appears at Fili’s door, a bundle thrown over his shoulder and the troubled look of someone who has to make a choice and is falling apart under the weight of it.

“I have to go,” he all but begs, “I have to know if she’s alright, and bring her back with me if I can.”

He looks so vulnerable, as if one little gust of wind could make him fall to his knees.

“She’s my mother, Fili,” he pleads, “she’s the only family I have left. If something happened to her…”

Fili takes his hands in his own, cradling them gently. Kili’s fingers curl instinctively around his, seeking comfort in their touch.

“Then we should get going.”

 

 

As their luck goes. In Ered Luin, in the fragile-looking shell of his mother’s house, Kili’s skin burns for three days and three nights, hot with a fever that seems to consume him from within; and for three days and three nights Fili watches over him, shivering in his shirtsleeves, piling the few available blankets on his friend’s ever-trembling frame.

He declines Dis’ offer to let him have her bed and politely thwarts all her efforts to make him rest awhile, managing to send her off to sleep on the least creaking chair and draping a shawl around her shoulders. She’s fast asleep when Kili finally cracks an eye open, sometime around dawn on the fourth morning; sunlight barely seeps in through the tiny windows, but it’s enough to light the way for Kili’s hand to find the prince’s arm and gently tug on his shirt.

“You should wear red more often,” Kili murmurs, his whole body spent, his eyes bleary. He looks paler than ever in the early morning light, but his skin doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore, his breathing is more even, and the warm, weak touch of Kili’s fingers curled in the creases of his sleeve makes that knot in Fili’s stomach melt away.

He smiles softly, brushing his knuckles against Kili’s stubbly cheek as carefully as he knows.

“It’s from my father’s days,” he reveals in hushed tones, trying his best not to disturb Dis’ slumber. “His House’s colours used to be red and gold, but all that was lost when he and my mother died.”

Kili’s nose crinkles in displeasure at his words, his eyes blink tiredly; Fili smooths his thumb along the troubled line of his friend’s brow, his own smile growing.

“There now,” he soothes, “no need to worry about me. I am Thorin’s heir, after all.”

Kili nods slightly, leaning into the cool caress of Fili’s fingers.

“But I like this better,” he states proudly, glancing at the rich red of Fili’s tunic, the perfect fit of his shoulders, the half-undone laces on his chest. A drowsy smile blossoms on his lips, one the prince wishes he could kiss away right there and then, in a hut in the Blue Mountains, with the North Wind rattling at their door. But the pure adoration in Kili’s gaze stays him, and it makes his heart stop for one utterly perfect second.

“You look like a king.”

There are no words for the joy bursting in Fili’s chest, absolute, overwhelming. There’s only the tenderness of Kili’s hand, lying nestled in the crook of his elbow, and the warmth of his skin cupped in Fili’s palm as he drifts back to sleep. It’s like holding the whole world in his grasp, and there’s more beauty in it than Thorin could ever hope to know from his throne.

“ _I certainly feel like one._ ”

 

 

 

There’s an entire universe of secret _I love you_ ’s in Kili, Fili learns after a while. It’s not just in his words, as much of a charmer as he is; it’s in the little gestures as well.

He sneaks scented oils from Oin’s cabinet to rub into Fili’s sore muscles on his roughest days.

He twines ivy around the canopy of his bed and makes flowers bloom on Fili’s pillow on lazy mornings, and turns Fili’s wine into bland tea when he needs attentions.

He laughs with his face buried in Fili’s hair and kisses the dimples around his golden moustache, indulging himself in butt-pinches and little squeezes of the royal backside under the blankets.

“Maybe I should turn you into a toad, after all,” he jests one night, while climbing in the space between Fili’s legs.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Fili teases, tickling the exquisite expanse of Kili’s bare flanks with cold fingertips.

“Not yet,” Kili admits, wiggling like a fish out of water at the freezing touch, “but I can learn.”

He pins Fili down and blows raspberries in the sensitive crook of his neck in retaliation, basking in the fit of giggles coming from the prince’s mouth.

Fili has never been happier than this.

 

 

 

He bursts in the room in a cloud of golden hair and pure rage, his sword still dripping blood when he flings it in a corner of the infirmary. He barely even spares a glance for old Oin and his fretting apprentice, marching towards the cot like a soldier on the battlefield.

“Your highness-”

“ _Leave us!_ ” He roars, listening for their scrambling feet and the clicking of the door being shut behind them. In his makeshift bed, Kili is a pale shadow with a bandaged shoulder, and a ripped tunic stained a deep red that will soon clot and rust. The sight of it fills the future king with a blind fury – a split second in which he doesn’t even know himself anymore. All he knows is the arrow that pierced Kili’s flesh in place of his own, and the life he just cut down in front of Erebor’s court to exact his revenge.

“Fili...” comes his lover’s hoarse voice, uncertain before the hurricane in Fili’s eyes – but the prince isn’t listening.

“You are a _fool_ , Kili son of Dis,” he cannot but declare, clenching his fists at his sides, “ _a damned fool!_ ”

It’s only then that he realizes, he is trembling. His hands are, tight and white-knuckled, and his legs too, as if his knees were about to buckle underneath him, and by the gods, his eyes sting, so much he thinks perhaps the fire burning in his guts has reached them at last and set them ablaze.

It’s only tears instead, and through their veil he can see Kili’s hand reach out for him, his handsome features softened into a smile despite the pain.

“My love,” Kili calls, and Fili’s heart answers, always, relentlessly, “come here.”

It’s only natural, how he sits on the edge of the cot and his sturdy frame curls into Kili’s, crashing their mouths together and reveling in the feeling of Kili’s nimble fingers woven through his hair. All the things he thought he had lost for a moment, the scent, the heat, the tenderness, and they’re still here, bestowed generously on him, as sweet and vivid as he knew them to be.

He hides his face in the crook of Kili’s neck when they part, careful not to weigh down on his injured side.

“You idiot,” he chides half-heartedly, all the rage melting from his bones as Kili smooths golden locks away from his face, “what would I do without you?”

Kili presses soft kisses against his temple, tickling the tender skin there with the light stubble on his chin.

“That’s what I was thinking when I took an arrow for you, you know,” the younger replies gently, like a mother speaking to her child. “What would I do without you, you stubborn, selfless, wonderful princeling. What would anyone do without you…”

Kili sighs in his hair, warm and drowsy, and Fili lets himself lie in his arms until sleep and Oin’s concoctions win him over.

 

 

 

Kili’s fingers trail gently over Fili’s brow, circling his head in little twists and flourishes. Stardust trickles from his fingertips, laying on Fili’s golden tresses like a coronet, glowing softly in the firelight.

“Your crown should look like this,” Kili begins, entranced, his fingers a-dancing on the prince’s temples and down over the back of his head. “Pure gold to complement your hair, rubies to go with the crimson of your cloak,” he croons, tilting his head to the side - his eyes are so full of fondness, they feel like a caress on Fili’s bare skin and Fili cannot but bask in their warmth.

“Bright like your virtue,” Kili continues in sweet tones, “as steadfast as your heart.”

Fili catches his wrists in his grasp, keeping them where they’re cradling his head, reveling in the little sound of surprise coming from Kili’s lips.

“Your hands shall be my crown,” the prince declares, a twinkle in his gaze Kili’s only ever seen in these chambers, when they’re alone and safe and tangled together in their own bubble, away from the rest of the world. The corners of his regal mouth curl into a smile, and Kili’s heart beats faster at the sight of it. “Your fingers will be my gold, and your kisses, they shall be my gems.”

Kili chuckles and leans in, planting a playful smooch on the future king’s mouth. His cheeks are shaded with a delightful pink hue when they part; Fili rubs his thumbs on the stubble just beneath it, capturing Kili’s lips for another kiss in between their giggles. It’s light, it’s sweet, and it makes Kili’s eyes sparkle with laughter.

“So they shall, my liege,” the young man promises with the sweetest smile, “so they shall.”

 

 

 

When Thorin dies, Kili’s hands are the only ones able to steady him.

 

The ceremony takes its toll on Fili. He watches Thorin’s body return to the stone he was born of with red-rimmed eyes and a straight back, a steel hold on the hand Kili discreetly offers him when the candles are lit for the late king – a sea of lights swarming the hall, flickering with the people’s whispered prayers and goodbyes.

Kili lets him grieve, far from the court’s prying eyes and the crowds’ pitying looks. He spells the whole castle asleep for one day and wraps himself around Fili, absorbing his silences, muffling his sobs against his chest when he’s allowed to. He lets him sleep the afternoon away, watching over his rest from the bedside, letting the soft glow of the new dusk mend his own broken heart.

The next day, Fili rises with the sun; not stronger, perhaps, but grateful – a gentle smile gracing his features, and an aura of peace about him. That is how he faces the Council and the court; a newborn morning star casting a soft light around him, free of Thorin’s piercing quality and yet all the steadier for it.

When he sits on the throne, the sheer strength radiating from his figure is undeniable. He is majesty; power seated deep in his bones. And underneath all that, he is still Fili, red-rimmed eyes for his lost uncle, a weary smile for his people despite his sorrows. Kili has never loved him more.

 

 

 

On coronation day, Fili’s crown is golden and spotted with deep crimson rubies, forged by deft hands and hammer and blessed with fire and a sprinkle of magic. Sunlight pours in from the tall windows of the throne room, and it falls on Fili as if it was reaching for him especially. The grin on Kili’s face suggests that _that_ might just be the case.

Fili’s heart has never felt this tender before. The crash of clapping hands, like waves breaking on the shore, when the crown is set upon his head and the new King is born, the cheering of the crowd, a thousand voices chanting his name as one – all of that is nothing compared to the pounding in his chest, loud and strong and healthy, like Kili is, like Kili makes _him_ too.

When Fili looks at him and their eyes lock, when the loving caress of Kili’s gaze finds him again, Fili can see him beaming, pride shining clearly in his every feature.

Light touches his crown, and it shimmers, otherworldly.

It’s one of Kili’s _I love you_ ’s, and the King vows to honor and return every single one of them for the rest of their long, long lives.

 


End file.
